selva oscura

In the selva oscura,

I made peace with my scarlet cardigan sweater

and buried my dog Sam in the river-bottom sand.

I wrapped him up, buttoned all five buttons

around his brown fur body, fixed

his ears when they flopped inside out.

I dug out the hole

with my own two hands. Then,

in my great red plastic canoe

I paddled down river and left him.

The woods swallowed us

after I closed his eyes.

overcoat

Sometimes they dragged his body through the wheat

mostly when the field was covered in eighteen

or more inches of snow.

The red coat he wore turned to ice,

then his body and it became one.

Even after his coworkers and friends were done

and he thawed out a bit,

body and red coat were still one.

The snow receded, they used his feet

to dig the hole

and then his body went into the ground:

body, blood, overcoat, one.

lolcats

I gyrated among the tomcats,

the tawny cats, the lady cats,

and I waited for them to hang

my bait above me, not a carrot

but rather a steak

on a hook

not a string.

It stung. I was that lonely. And.

Wasn't a cat. Couldn't catch a break.

The king of cats wore a turban

and the queen wore a shroud.

I drank beer from a pitcher

and sure as hell wasn't proud.

The music got louder and louder;

the cat orgy filled the room with sounds

of rude laughter from those at home

watching with their computers, click

by click and youtubing

laughter the cats enjoyed as they prowled

from sexual partner to cat-hookers

they paid in pale pink catnip

and dirty looks, feigned ambivalence

and unfeigned apathy. And I thought:

with these kids if you can't not give a shit

then you're probably doing it right.

the movement of diapers

I write you not a poem of torque

and squalor, a poem

to turn the inside of your asshole

into a beautiful riviera,

a rushing woosh of intestine-cleaning,

bowel-moving beauty: what then

do I do? I write for you

a poem of nothing: no squalor,

dolor, tragedy, or even masturbatory

depth of self. I write a poem

of niceness: much shit

and much repetition, almost suitable

for insatiable toilet fodder

(much like cannon fodder)

but not quite, nope: a poem

for your educated liberal intuition

it treats you well, sits you down

on the seat with a thin-paper-disease

preventing-protective-coating

and says: "Shit you out

all your fears and depressing thoughts,

all your disobedient parents, children that pout,

your balding dog, old folks (especially the old folks

who've made the movement of diapers,

more, worse shit and less knowledge

of the shit than newborn children)

and flush and wipe and flush and wipe and flush;

you will then have made

the movement of the poem, O

knights and knightesses of the faithhood,

but come back, you! Your constipation's

dilation must be alleviated (even soothed);

dictated, not beautified -that's not

what toilets are most useful for.

in response to a new york times article on "sustainable relationships"

1

Once I spoke to you about the sacred art of ball-throwing. Now,

I bury every depressing thought

in the underside of your brain

and close the coffin

of your spine

like a book.

2

I drove west through the red dirt oceans

for three days just to get here.

I drank from a pothole:

I failed to purchase a pot (at Wal-Mart)

so the hole held some things

holes are not meant to hold.

Some things in the water

made it bad for drinking:

Rogue amoebas. Tar. Bird shit.

Some things without etymological roots.

Come down on routes not

made from words - like my pain - not from words,

not from you either, but drilled in you

while I drill, as the New York Times tells me

I should drill, for self-expansion, for my own

colony:

For my own damnable happiness:

If I can't find sustenance in you

or your body

then I'm just not digging deep enough.

3

There are some things in the water.

Dead raccoons. Hairs from the bellies

of dead possums.

Help me.

travel books

I could write a travel book about Omaha

in under an hour.

No one's been there,

or lives there,

or for God's sake

is going there.

I'll just lean me

back and take a hack.

someone has a birthday this week, and this is for her!

Laura,

you know how a good meal

really hits the spot?

Real good-like?

Like when I think of good fun:

fried chicken with gravy;

or something (good) for you:

stir-fry with tofu, mushrooms,

a dish with pine-nuts,

purple-black balsamic vinaigrette;

or sprouts.

Well, in other words - you should know

what I know:

You hit the spot, sweetheart.